Sherlock's First
by Lizzie1498
Summary: Just a little short fiction about Sherlock badly injured and John having to perform mouth-to mouth. Sherlock considers it his first kiss. John does his best to save Sherlock. Very fluffy. Cuteness ensues. Angst.
1. Chapter 1

He had spotted the murderer.

A serial Killer to make it more accurate. Victims: 22. Sherlock was 23.

Sherlock bolted after the man. John had been long left behind. Lost in the night lights of London.

He had been chasing him for almost twenty minutes now and his lungs burned as he gasped for frigid air, his legs stretched with fire as he continued to sprint.  
He loved it.  
Every muscle of his body told him to stop. To give up. To at least slow down.  
He didn't. After losing sight of the Killer for a moment which seemed like an eternity he finally found him and gave in one last kick. Like a race horse he sped up. Closing the distance between them in an inhuman amount of time.

Sirens were whirring in the distance, closing in fast. Five minutes away. At most.

The Killer was running towards the pier. How was this guy so damn fast?!

Sherlock followed and blocked the only escape. The Bastard was surrounded by Water and a pissed off Socio-path.

"I suggest you surrender." Sherlock managed to choke out between gasps, but he was pleased to see the Killer breathing heavily too, perhaps more than himself.

"Not likely, Mate." In a flash of Silver, a knife was pointed at Sherlock's neck.

"How Dull." Sherlock rolled his eyes with a loud sigh. How typical. Rushing forward, The Killer made to swipe the dagger across Sherlock's midsection. With practiced precision, Sherlock ducked out of the way and tackled the much larger thug to the wooden planks with enough force to shake the pier.

They scrambled at each other desperately; Sherlock's main focus the knife, the Killer's the sirens. Sherlock grateful for the practice he had growing up with his sometimes brute of a Brother, layered blow after blow on the muscular rock beneath him. He aimed mostly for the face and throat, the most vulnerable points he could reach at the moment as he still clutched the wrist clenched around the knife aiming for his heart.

The sirens were getting closer, three minutes now.  
Sherlock continued to berate the young man beneath him, hoping to finally knock him unconscious. And all of a sudden it seemed he had succeeded. One last blow for good measure.

He did it. Sherlock won.

That was until the Killer shot up and head-butted Sherlock so hard his ears rang. He flopped on to his back, dangerously close to the edge of the pier. Without missing a beat, the Killer surged forward and grabbed Sher-lock raining blows on his thin form until he heard bones break. He wouldn't stop.

Sherlock fought viciously, keeping the hand with the knife at bay with both of his, forcing himself to accept the blows. Over and Over again. His face, his throat, his stomach, his chest. A particularly hard hit to the ribs dou-bled his body over itself as he heard a sickening crack. The Killer stood up and kicked Sherlock down onto the planks, slamming his boot against his face, thrusting it into his groin and driving it into his ribs and back. The berating continued for what seemed like hours, the huge foot planting itself wherever it pleased. With an air of finality, The Killer lifted his momentous leg and crushed the thin thigh beneath him with many audible cracks, like wrapping paper. The pain was engulfing. Burning on the surface and plunging into twisted agony the deeper into his bones the blows fell. Breathing was becoming a chore. But then again:

Breathing is Boring.

The three minute beating felt like hours and Sherlock felt like giving up. His throbbing leg badly broken, He hadn't caught his breath and now with his lungs whining against shattered bone began to cause him severe dis-tress. And just when he was about to succumb he heard the voice of an angel.

John. A minute early.

"Sherlock!" His voice sounded so worried and Sherlock wanted desperately to call back but couldn't even form words with his lips.

Suddenly he was bathed in bright lights and the sound of many police officers rushing to him.

The Killer rose to his full height, a towering seven feet five inches, bringing Sherlock with him. He gripped him by the alabaster throat and held him high over his head, squeezing sickeningly tight as Sherlock's good leg flailed wildly, desperately to escape.

"One step closer and he's dead!" The Killer shouted and held out the knife for all to see.

They Froze. Rooted. Lestrade's voice rang out.

"Drop your weapon! Drop it now!" All guns pointed up and aimed for the Killer.

John was ahead of the entire group, still as a statue. He noticed Sherlock's limp leg and tried to determine the damage from his distance.

The Knife still in hand of a madman.

Lestrade's voice screamed so loud Sherlock could hear him clear as day even in his half-conscious haze.

"LET HIM GO NOW!"  
The Killer feigned confusion.

"First you want me to drop the knife. Now you want me to drop him? Confusing lot you are." He smiled grossly and tightened his grip on both hands.

Sherlock gasped desperately, loudly. The noise was terrifying like a dying jaguar. John shined his torch to his slowly stilling friend, his lips were blue and quaking as his eyes began to roll.

"Drop everything in your hands now!" John shouted in frustration, Sherlock wouldn't last much longer and judg-ing by the amount of blood smeared across his face he has been fighting pretty hard. Or taking a pretty hard beating. His energy was depleting with his oxygen.

"Oh, I will," He sneered. Sherlock fell limp. "Just let me dispose of my evidence."

Many things happened at once.

As Lestrade screamed a final warning, the knife arched in a flash of silver in the night before plunging into Sher-lock who howled despite the lack of breath in his strangled lungs. John shot forward , enraged, to bring down the Killer with a quick bullet to the brain just as the Killer flung Sherlock, knife still inside him, over ten feet out into the Thames where he sunk like a boulder.

The rest of the team rushed forward in panic, guns at the ready as the Killer surrendered to Lestrade who beat him to the floor.

John ran for the pier, gun forgotten on the planks, he kicked off his shoes as he sprinted before diving head first into the freezing black water.

Instantly all sound was drowned out, all sight, all sensations. The water enveloped him in a painful, numb, throb-bing vortex, dragging him under as it promised the kiss of relief if he were to just let go.

His eyes shot wide in the liquid dark as he clawed his way through the mind-numbing water searching frantically for Sherlock. He swam further and then deeper for many long moments before his lungs began to burn for Oxygen's sweet relief. He surged up, knowing he was leaving his best friend somewhere in the bottom of the Thames and he immediately was torn in two at the overwhelming pain of selfishness. He burst through the sur-face with a scream on his lips, "I can't find him!"

"KEEP LOOKING THEN." Lestrade yelled across the water as he was still attempting to restrain the Killer. Only then did John realize how far he had swam. John was at last 15 feet from the pier. He had probably passed Sherlock.

John cursed and quickly paddled his way through the icy water that was becoming more and more difficult to fight. He drew in a breath before diving back under and forcing himself deeper and deeper until his ears popped and his lungs begged for breath but he would not leave again. If John left for air he would never find Sherlock again.

So he fought through the water, opened his eyes uselessly in the murk and cried endlessly, adding warm tears to the frozen silence surrounding him.

And as his heart grew cold with the realization that Sherlock was gone forever, lost in the cold, scared and alone, John began to swim up for his lungs were threatening to burst.  
He opened his eyes to look up at the moon reflecting over the water, the blue light glistening and flashing across the surface of the black water and he thought to himself, at least Sherlock would have a beautiful last sight. It didn't make the hurt any less. With his last shred of hope gone and the tears of losing his only friend flowing faster than ever he swam even quicker to the surface, the idea of being in the same water as his dead friend sending shivers down his spine.

Only six more feet or so and then-

His fingers brushed wool.

He reached down in shock and snatched up the woolen collar, finding his way to wrap his arms around the limp figure and surge upwards. His tears turning to joy.

They broke the surface together, Only one took a breath.

A/N: Should I continue? ~Lizzie


	2. Chapter 2

John swam awkwardly, doing his best to keep both their heads above the water and compensate for the extra dead weight. Sherlock may be underweight, but with that damned coat he seemed to be three times his stone. But John wasn't about to stop, he had carried men on his back and out of enemy lines in the blistering heat. He could carry a single sociopath. But it wasn't the weight of his friend that was slowing him down, but the idea of time running out. Every second he thought of Sherlock dying, of not making it to the pier in time an extra ten stone was added on his shoulders until he felt he was sinking. The water seeming to rush into his nose, his ears, his eyes, until all he could do was feel. The coat, the freezing water, the weight of a life itself. And just as John was about to be smothered in the fake sensations and dragged under he had reached the pier.

Lestrade snatched Sherlock by the coat and dragged him up onto the pier while Anderson pried John out of the claws of the Thames.

The Knife was gone.

Not concerned wit himself in the slightest, John rushed forward on his hands and knees to his flatmate. Unconscious, not breathing, bleeding profusely. With Lestrade's aid, they stripped off the woolen coat and ripped open the purple shirt revealing a six inch long wound starting a few centimeters above his navel and ripping all the way up to his sternum,

"Oh, shit. Shit shit shit shit…." John mumbled to himself breathlessly as he tore off his own jumper and pressed it to the wound, hard. Lestrade, knowing John's plan of action immediately took John's place and applied heavy pressure. Allowing John to begin compressions.

"Call the ambulance! Now!" John screamed through chattering teeth. 27, 28, 29, 30.

Tilting Sherlock's head back to open his airway, John swiped the inside of Sherlock's mouth for blood before placing his mouth over the blue lips and giving two large breaths. Nothing. No rise or fall of the bloody chest. He readjusted his position and gave two more breaths. Nothing again. Compressions.

John continued the compressions and then administered two more large breaths. Nothing.

As he was beginning his third round, John felt warmth surrounding his knees; looking down on the dark piers he saw the unmistakable shine of blood. He looked to Lestrade's hands, still pressing down tightly, his arm muscles straining under the amount of force he was applying. Was the blood his own?

No..Then that must-Oh, Shit.

"Lestrade! Keep pressing down but help me put him on his side!" John stopped his compressions, because if what he thought was true then those compressions and breaths

had been useless.

As Lestrade and he wrestled the sociopath onto his side John's horror was confirmed.

The knife had plunged so deep it had ripped a hole literally straight through Sherlock.  
Thousands of thoughts swirled through his mind, spinal damage, permanent nerve damage, paralysis, internal bleeding, punctured lung, death…  
He snapped out of his morbid day dreaming and quickly tore off his shirt-leaving him shivering in a wet vest-and pressed it hard to the gap in Sherlock's back, not nearly as long as the one on his front, but still, life threatening.

Lestrade gaped at the whole carved straight through the limp man below him until John shoved him back to his task at hand which was at the moment holding Sherlock's intestines inside him. Scooting closer, John successfully pinned Sherlock sideways in between both of them, praying the ambulance would arrive soon.

Suddenly without any warning Sherlock choked his way to life, spluttering and vomiting water and blood all over both their laps, neither cared, just grinned at him and praised him.****

"You're doing great Sherlock! Stay awake! Breathe deeply, you're safe now." John continued his mantra and leaned over the limp body to look Sherlock in his glassy eyes.

He wasn't shivering, that was a bit not good.

Sherlock opened his mouth to speak but only managed intelligible grunts.  
"Sherlock, for once, I really need you to shut up." John commanded and applied heavier pressure now that his shirt was dripping.

Sherlock screamed.

He screamed and thrashed with surprising strength as involuntary tears flowed down his face, warming his cheeks. Donovan ran over quickly and held down his injured leg much to his dislike as he screamed in agony and fought to escape all the hands hurting him.  
John stoked his head gently to soothe his suffering friend before applying back to the wound.  
"Shh, Easy Sher. The ambulance is on its way." John whispered and ran another hand down the taut spine.

They all sat in silence until Sherlock choked two words, "I-i'm C-co-ld."

"I know Sher. Just relax, they are almost here." For Sherlock to admit he was feeling anything was a huge admission that he was in pain.

"I-it Hu-hurts, J-john." Sherlock gasped as a sudden wave of pain rolled over him, it matured into a growl and ended in a low whine followed by racking sobs.

They all looked at each other. Sherlock was human after all. John and Lestrade knew this all along, but the others needed proof. They finally received it.

"It's going to be alright Sherlock. You'll pull through, stay strong okay?" John felt tears running down his own face as he watched the life draining and dripping from his best friend.

"Sherlock?" John called when he received no answer.  
Panic gripped his heart.

"Sherlock!? Answer me!" No answer. John let one hand rome to his friend's neck. No pulse.

"Oh, shit no you don't. Shit. You stay awake you bastard! You better stay awake! I did not freeze my arse off for you to just die!" John tapped the cold cheek, harder and harder until he was practically slapping him. The others watched sadly in silence as John cried his eyes out and begged his friend to live through his tears.

The sirens sounded.


	3. Chapter 3

I'm back, loves! Missed me? Of course not! You all have lives and fun places to go and-  
(If you're anything like me you spend your days in your room with computer and food.) Well, that's how I spent my spring break and it was refreshing! Now, enough about me and back to what you came here for. Does Sherlock live? (And IF he DOES….would you guys mind if this migrated into a pre-slash? It's up to you. If you happen to leave a review please tell me if you want the ship to sail or sink and I will use that to finalize my judgement. I promise if it does sail it will be kept incredibly mild. No sex.) Enjoy!  
~Lizzie

The sirens seemed miles away, even as the ambulance rounded the corner and the paramedics leapt out with supplies in their arms and a stretcher in tow.

Sherlock stared unseeingly into the sky, not breathing, heart still as stone. His blue lips open in a small "o" allowing blood to trickle through his crimson stained teeth and down his chin. His intestines were literally in both their hands: warm, wet and crawling out of his body even as he lay there, dead.

John's surroundings fell into a whirlwind of voices and hands, pushing, dragging and tearing him away. He was too weak to fight it and as he was dragged away he could still feel Sherlock's cold skin against his hands. Lestrade stayed by him, murmuring comforts and wrapping a blanket around his shaking shoulders. But he wasn't cold. He could not feel at the moment, nothing except for the rapid flutter of his heart and his labored breaths as he watched through glazed orbs the scene in front of him. The crowd of paramedics stripping away clothing, injecting and attaching, pressing and pulling, wrapping and setting and finally slamming down two cold paddles on the naked chest and electrocuting Sherlock's still body.

The paddles charged a second time before slamming down with a bruising force and lifted Sherlock's body into a huge arch for several long moments until he fell flaccid.

Murmuring was heard among the men and women in white before grudgingly lifting the paddles a third time.

No response.

A young blonde looked at her watch and spoke quietly, "Time of death, 11:48 P.M.-"

"NO!" John screeched and scrambled forward only to be intercepted by Lestrade flanked by five other officers who used all their strength to keep John back.

"John! He's gone, mate! Stop it! He's gone, John! He's gone-" Lestrade held John gently as he wept for his fallen soldier.

"Just-try again! Please-just one more time!" John reached for his best friend, willing him to awaken.

The blonde looked to her comrades before silently agreeing to try again.

The buzzing was incredibly loud in their ears.

"Clear!"

The bloody body arched harshly before crashing down to earth. One second, two, three, four, fiv-

With a stuttering gasp, Sherlock screamed his way back to life, scaring the wits out of everyone on the pier. His eyes darting from face to unfamiliar face, panicking at the sudden swarm of people before glazing over as the pain suddenly roared over him. More blood spurted past his lips as he tried to suck in another breath, fighting his broken ribs and collapsed lung. Tears flowed freely now, clumping his dark eyelashes together and dribbling down his face as a mask was fastened and he was lifted painfully onto the waiting stretcher.

John was never happier.

Pulling himself away from Lestrade and the others with wobbly knees John bolted after the fast moving stretcher and quickly onto the ambulance, ignoring the looks and saying unthinkingly.

"He's my Boyfriend."

It rolled off his tongue effortlessly, instinctually. If he were to say, "He's my friend." They would have pushed him off and told him to find a ride. But that simple three letter prefix sat him next to his best friend whom he cared about more than anything. And now they were heading to the hospital where he would be saved. He honestly didn't give a damn about what anyone thought of him anymore.

"Hey, Sherlock. Can you hear me?" His voice broke pathetically as he gently took Sherlock's bruised hand in his own. The blackened eyes flitted up to meet his as a small smile of recognition graced his bowed lips.

"You got a few scratches." John huffed gently, an attempt to lighten the doomed mood as paramedics bustled about, prepping him for surgery upon arrival.

Sherlock almost laughed, an extra puff of air from his broken nose would have to do, because with the agony he was in he knew it wasn't a mere scratch. The morphine was helping. A lot.

But it didn't stop the sickening surreal emptiness he felt in his torso. His insides were venturing out, and hands were reaching where they should never be able to go. If he wasn't the victim, this would be a very intriguing sight to see.

John's warm hand cradling his own like a baby bird was a soft reassurance and comfort among the unfamiliarity of the sensations and surroundings. He was never good in public situations, unless it was for a case, the façade of his Consulting Detective persona was a way of cutting himself off emotionally from those around him. Then he could avoid interaction and escape, be consumed by the work he loved. But to just lie there, helpless and completely at the mercy of strangers he felt a panic creep over him, breathing up his spine and swirling around his rapidly beating heart. But John's pulse against his was like a balm to his mind, calming him and ensuring him that he would be safe under his protection.

Sensing Sherlock's anxiety John stroked his thumb over callused knuckles and whispered gently.

"You'll be fine, Sherl. Just relax and it will be over soon. And you'll be back to your annoying dick self in no time." Sherlock smirked at John's words and let his eyes flutter close as the medicine took it's hold. He held John's hand tightly.

~A/N: Short chapter. Sorry. Will write more this weekend. Hope you like. Like I said before, do you want Johnlock for this story? Comment sink or sail! :3 Till next time.

Lizzie


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